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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24738130">How Finn Met the Lion</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tohellwithyourcrap/pseuds/tohellwithyourcrap'>tohellwithyourcrap</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:40:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,016</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24738130</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tohellwithyourcrap/pseuds/tohellwithyourcrap</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
      <p>*General Warnings on Language and themes of violence and depictions of dysfunctional;/abusive families*</p><p>This is a story about Finn, Noelle Stevenson's imaginary non-binary edgy protagonist kid for Catradora. I imagine them a certain way, with certain personality quirks, you may disagree and that's fine. </p><p>If I accidentally refer to they or them as he or him it's rare and only happened because I wrote this shit at 3AM. Point it out and I'll fix it.</p><p>I'd say it's decent in quality, and I may continue the series and edit it for quality as I go along. In it's current rough state I think it's passable. </p><p>She-Ra is the only thing that's ever compelled me to write Fan-Fiction. I enjoyed it a great deal, maybe you will too.</p><p>It's more or less an adventure story, although currently it is only at the very early stages with only theoretical future chapters. Some Season 5 Spoilers. Maybe some things hidden in-between the lines as well. </p><p>Overall though just know that I made this for fun in spare time on a restless night. Don't take it too seriously.</p>
    </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>How Finn Met the Lion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>*General Warnings on Language and themes of violence and depictions of dysfunctional;/abusive families*</p><p>This is a story about Finn, Noelle Stevenson's imaginary non-binary edgy protagonist kid for Catradora. I imagine them a certain way, with certain personality quirks, you may disagree and that's fine. </p><p>If I accidentally refer to they or them as he or him it's rare and only happened because I wrote this shit at 3AM. Point it out and I'll fix it.</p><p>I'd say it's decent in quality, and I may continue the series and edit it for quality as I go along. In it's current rough state I think it's passable. </p><p>She-Ra is the only thing that's ever compelled me to write Fan-Fiction. I enjoyed it a great deal, maybe you will too.</p><p>It's more or less an adventure story, although currently it is only at the very early stages with only theoretical future chapters. Some Season 5 Spoilers. Maybe some things hidden in-between the lines as well. </p><p>Overall though just know that I made this for fun in spare time on a restless night. Don't take it too seriously.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Too Much Too Young Too Fast</p><p> </p><p>Finn ran for their life. They’d always ran, what else do you do? Only an idiot would try to <em>fight</em> a bunch of irate wastelanders that had been… that were <em>under the impression</em> that they’d been cheated.</p><p> </p><p>Finn had never cheated in their life! Ask anyone. Anyone who said otherwise definitely had no evidence.</p><p> </p><p>The streets of The Valley of the Lost were never what you’d call maintained, or cobbled, or streets. The streets more closely resembled long piles of dirt in-between the generously so-called buildings and homes the wastelanders occupied. But dirt pile or not, Finn pounded pavement, or dirt, faster than they’d had in ages. Since the last time they’d been caught… <em>accused</em> of cheating.</p><p> </p><p>Finn could hear the brutes, once drinking partners and card cohorts, as they screamed themselves horse after Finn. They made numerous threats and assertions on Finn’s parentage, neither of which Finn felt was all that called for. Even if they <em>had</em> cheated, which of course they hadn’t, there was no need to bring their mothers into it.</p><p> </p><p>Still, those shouting and screeching voices were getting <em>awfully</em> close. Had Finn gotten slower? They swore they’d never taken this long to ditch disgruntled pursuers. <em>Accusers</em>, yes accusers.</p><p> </p><p>The dust and debris scattered under Finn’s sprinting paws. They kicked up a minor cloud, easy to follow sadly, but on the bright side it some of it must have gotten into those sore losers’ eyes, which was some consolation.</p><p> </p><p>Finn tore around corners, sprawling nearly to their chest more than once at the reckless velocity they made the turns. Just as Finn latched onto a lone stall’s pole and spun themselves around the next corner in a vicious arc, tearing away the pole and the canopy it was supporting away at the last, they could swear the relentless jerks were <em>right behind them</em>.</p><p> </p><p>For the first time in ages, the last being when one of his mothers had caught him snipping the bowstrings on every bow in his uncle’s collection, Finn began to feel real, actual fear.</p><p> </p><p>Their heart wasn’t just pounding from the running anymore. Finn could feel it in their ears, thumping into their brain with every frantic pace. They could feel their feet, padded paws usually so resilient even in the burning sands, chafing raw as they scraped and scrabbled across the myriad stones and refuse decorating The Valley of the Lost’s alleys.</p><p> </p><p>“They can’t possibly still be behind me.” Finn thought, as they clambered up a wall onto a lower hanging roof, wheezing the last few inches of pull up onto the level surface, their arms trembling slightly and their knees clicking.</p><p> </p><p>Finn wanted to sit, to crawl away and lie low, but it was the damnedest thing, they were too tired to move, even to lower themselves or even to fall down. How does that even happen?</p><p> </p><p>Finn gasped for breath, though the burning air gave little relief. Finn could only bend over, clasping their hands atop their thighs as they heaved and sweat painted the roof the stood on.</p><p> </p><p>“How<em> the hell </em>are they keeping up with me?”</p><p>Finn began to turn, just about to force themselves to keep going, when all of the sudden the world tipped sideways.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not normal.”</p><p> </p><p>Then Finn was on their side, spitting dust and clutching at the side of the roof to avoid falling, and their head <em>really</em> hurt. Finn pressed their hand to the side of their head that hurt and it came away wet and red.</p><p> </p><p>“You through a <em>rock</em> at me?!”they cried, incredulous. “And you <em>hit</em> me? They muttered, almost impressed.</p><p> </p><p>Finn didn’t have much time to appreciate that throw. Before they could lift their head to see which direction their imminent beating was coming from they were dragged, <em>yanked</em>, off the roof by two pairs of hands. Well a pair of hand types and some claws.</p><p> </p><p>“Git em down ere.” a sadly familiar voice croaked in a voice that simply vibrated in Finn’s memory, so reminiscent of the <em>lived</em> squeal of pigs, right before they ate, at the <em>end</em> of the day.</p><p> </p><p>Finn’s head hit the ground, again, dust stinging the wound where their head had been split by the rock. They coughed, but couldn’t get clearance before being hoisted under the armpits on both sides and chucked forward to the center of a happily little gathering of some friends, new and old.</p><p> </p><p>Finn lifted their eyes from the dirt, skull splitting, lungs croaking, trying to take in the numbers. “Did the card room always hold this many?” Finn was pretty sure that it hadn’t, but they weren’t sure of much right now besides how much their head hurt, and how very, very tired they were.</p><p> </p><p>“Quick for a lil un this one is.” that same angry, but mostly hungry, pig squeal voice said, with what passed for a chuckle.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s no aard to catch a lying, cheating, sneaking liar when you’re expecting ‘em.” The voice continued as Finn was kicked into turning over onto their back, now sprawled out between no less than seven, eight pairs of feet? Boots, or hooves or scaley talons with sharp bits on the end. “innit boys?”</p><p> </p><p>The group laughed, a variety of sounds you’d be scared of if you heard it alone in the woods at night. Here, in the heat and the dust and the sweat, the cruel laughs added to Finn’s suffocation. They had to get space, they had to get free, but they were so tired. It was hard to keep their eyes open, but their head wasn’t hurting quite so much anymore. Maybe they could just lie there on their back like that, maybe they’d just let him drift…</p><p> </p><p>“Oi, sit ‘em up.” Pig squeal called. Finn was grabbed by the back of the shirt and almost thrown forward again. But the hands held on, forcing Finn upright and looking ahead.</p><p> </p><p>And there was Barm. Pig voice, pig faced almost, with less nose and more tooth. Certainly not as inviting as a pig. Not even close to as cute. And Finn had never owed money to any pigs. Not that they recalled.</p><p> </p><p>“Finn moi chum. Whadyu run off for?” Barm, roundest body Finn had ever seen, bent at the waist, what thin thought was Barm’s waist, and poke, hard, in Finn’s chest.</p><p>“No manners in these young ones, s’what I always say.”</p><p> </p><p>The hands, claws it turned out, clutching Finn by the shirt happened to speak next. Avo, Abo, Aco, whatever his name was. Terrible bluffer. Always left his cards at such an inviting angle. A-something shook Finn, digging claws in and thrashing Finn back and forth.</p><p> </p><p>“The game was just getting fun! Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to leave before giving your dear friends a chance to win their money back?” the a-something named lizard cackled into Finn’s ear.</p><p> </p><p>Finn might’ve had a joke for that, if everything above the neck, and below the neck, wasn’t in an especially large amount of pain just then. Something about mothers, something about their mothers? Or the lizard’s mothers? Something about counting eggs before they hatch?</p><p> </p><p>It might have been a good one, but that’s when Barm clasped Finn’s shoulders and spoke with his pig voice and pig breath straight into Finn’s face.</p><p> </p><p>“Ya’know whatcha’ ‘ar now Finn?” Barm said, his hands on Finn’s shoulders not clutching tightly, just firmly, almost brotherly.</p><p> </p><p>Finn was fairly certain they were concussed, minimum in shock. Maybe that’s why they said, “Oh god please tell me you’re going to kill me. Anything but boring me with your old guy shit.”</p><p> </p><p>Barm spluttered with laughter, landing plenty of spittle on Finn, and Barm clapped them on the back with on hand. “Ahh even now, even here, ya ar’ whatcha ar Finn.”</p><p> </p><p>Finn was getting very dizzy. They looked up at Barm as he stood straight, or as straight as Barm ever managed.</p><p> </p><p>“And what’s that Barm? Besides ready to die if I never have to smell your breath again.”</p><p> </p><p>Barm smiled a broad, jagged smile. All gnawing molar and rotten gnasher, rather than anything you’d really want to say were teeth. “Yo’ar’ trouble Finn. Yo’ar touble.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Nothing But Trouble</p><p> </p><p>Mouser had never, so far as he was aware, ever been <em>liked</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re nothing but trouble.” was the descriptor of the day when he was growing up. Every day.</p><p> </p><p>When he and Bit had been kids, Bit had caught that turtle. He wanted to show it off, he was so excited, he trundled towards the houses, almost skipping, a not quite full set of teeth smiling all the way. And Mouser had kicked him in the side and watched Bit fall and drop the turtle.</p><p> </p><p>“Why?” his mother had asked, after his father had thrashed him, after the other adults had dragged Mouser to his parents, after Bit had cried and cried and wouldn’t stop, and Mouser had kicked him again.</p><p> </p><p>“Why did you kick your friend?” his mother had repeated, the look in her eyes worried, her voice soft, not even a little angry. Mouser remember thinking it was almost as if he had been the one getting kicked instead of doing the kicking. Mouser wasn’t sure exactly what to say. Why had he kicked Bit? Mouser wasn’t really sure himself.</p><p> </p><p>“I just wanted to.” he had said flatly, not apologizing, not defensive. Just said it, said it plain.</p><p> </p><p>“Why you evil little shit-” his dad looked ready to lunge at Mouser and strangle the remorse out of his son. Of course his mother had covered Mouser, encircling him in her arms and casting her soft, worried eyes on his father.</p><p> </p><p>“Stop! Don’t you dare!” she’d hiss. She said that to dad a lot.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s nothing but trouble, he never learns!”Dad said that a lot. To everyone.</p><p> </p><p>“You think this isn’t your fault?” she scoffed that time.</p><p> </p><p>They always fought like that. It hadn’t ever made much sense to Mouser. He’d get in trouble, either from hitting someone, or breaking something, or stealing something, or eating, touching, hiding, or playing with something he shouldn’t have. And his parents would start out both upset with him, but as soon as Mouser was about to really get it from his dad, mother would always pick a fight, blaming everything Mouser did on <em>dad </em>instead of on Mouser</p><p> </p><p>Mouser might have thought it was a neat trick, like he could never really get into trouble for anything. Not really. What was Bit going to do after all? Or any of the other kids? Some might be bigger yes, but facts were facts. Mouser was meaner, and didn’t mind throwing sand in eyes, kicking low, grabbing nearby sticks or buckets or shovels or whatever was around. The kids knew better.</p><p> </p><p>But his mother’s anger at Mouser’s dad every time Mouser caused trouble, mystery that it was, didn’t really do much for Mouser. Sure dad could never really beat him as hard as he probably wanted. But because his dad almost always was angry at Mouser, dad would get even more angry when he’d catch Mouser following him around.</p><p> </p><p>Mouser would follow dad at night when the drinking started over by the river. The same river where the kids caught turtles and frogs during the day. He’d watch from the bushes while his dad and his dad’s friends laughed and drank and pretty much always got into fights. Fights dad started, and always won. For some reason, everyone always still seemed to like dad, even though he hit people for no reason. Dad never got into trouble, and no one ever told dad he was doing something wrong. Everyone just did what dad said all the time.</p><p> </p><p>Except mother, she was the only one who seemed angry at dad, all the time, but especially when Mouser got into trouble. People never seemed to like Mouser the way they liked his dad. They didn’t do what Mouser told them to do they way they did for dad. They didn’t move out of the way in the street for Mouser the way they did for dad.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe he was doing something wrong, Mouser would think sometimes. Maybe he didn’t say the right thing? Maybe he didn’t hit the right person? Or at the right time? It was so weird.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>But then Mouser would come lucid again. The drink would wear off. And he’d remember. He was young anymore, that was ancient history. He wasn’t even <em>getting</em> old anymore. He <em>was</em> old.</p><p>Memories that far behind you, they become dreamy, blurry, like trying to make out the ground behind you underneath the sun. You know it’s there, but staring at it starts to hurt, it’s too glaring and hot, and the details are melted.</p><p> </p><p>Is that what being old is? Or is that what being too often drunk is, or not often enough.</p><p> </p><p>The rousing was such a headache. Usually literally. But really it was just the heat, the stiff air, the sour smell. Well, the smell was really his fault. The rest would be blamed on the Crimson Wastes and the Valley of The Lost.</p><p> </p><p>“Why did he stay here?” Mouser often found himself thinking. He could go anywhere, fight anywhere, earn his drink anywhere. But he knew the answer. His knees hurt now, almost all the time. His back hadn’t stretched totally straight in years. The scars and broken bones had multiplied and added together to make what might have once been unpleasant arthritis a waking torment.</p><p> </p><p>That’s the main reason he drank really. Mouser’s hands, so often broken from planting fists into other people’s various soft spots, hurt more often and hurt worse than he could have thought a person could actually just sit there and… <em>live with</em>. His hands sill opened and closed, thankfully. Otherwise how could he grip a bottle? Sure you can pull a cork with your teeth, until those start to go too. But you need a good grip for drinking. It’s just the way it is.</p><p> </p><p>But, as always, the nights pass, the sun comes up again, and the blurry dreams of a less immediately painful childhood fade, and they’re replaced by gods damned <em>sobriety.</em></p><p> </p><p>Mouser hated waking up. He couldn’t believe the resentment he felt sometimes at his own mind and body for betraying him so thoroughly as to force him to leave the sanctum of unconsciousness and open his fucking eyes<em> every day. </em></p><p> </p><p>He did this now. Under Duress. Because he <em>heard</em> something. More than the usual, annoying, troublesome blather of the world. There’s a certain ambiance in the Valley of the Lost that a body just gets used to. But no, this was different. This was actual blather. This was people opening their mouths and laughing and shouting, shouting, where Mouser could hear them, bright and clear as the thrice damned sun.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, let’s put a stop to that then, shall we?” He croaked out as he stood up. Or rather, less stood up, than slowly half crawled, half climbed, half slid himself up the wall he’d slept against. Three halves makes a whole, didn’t it?</p><p> </p><p>Oh but the shouting, the gods damned <em>shouting</em>. Was there no semblance of decency? Couldn’t a body sleep in peace without being awoken by <em>shouting</em> at the unreasonable hour of… what was it now? Mouser looked at the sky, gauging its position. “Damned thing’s near about to set. Those bastards.” he growled.</p><p> </p><p>Mouser really stood now. Aches, pains, stiffness not merely forgotten, but spat out onto the sand strewn ground, along with whatever had been half eaten the night before. Mouser was angry now. His oldest, truest friend. The companion that always stuck, the one anesthetic more powerful than drink.</p><p> </p><p>“Here- we- fuckin- go!” Mouser snarled as he stomped out of his little corner of his alley, out onto the, apparently, crowded streets where the shouters, those fucking <em>shouters</em>, stood.</p><p> </p><p>Mouser didn’t take long to count the number, or notice the positions. He just looked for the loudest.</p><p> </p><p>“Weellllllllll nowwwww. What do we have heeereee?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The Lion</p><p> </p><p>“You addicted to pain, fool?” A-something lizard slithered into Finn’s ear. Finn was getting pretty tired of him doing that. It tickled, down to the ear lobe, like the really annoying way that you just can’t get at.</p><p> </p><p>Barm held his hounds out before him, almost beckoning. “Oh Finn, oh poor stupid, ‘orrible cunt Finn. ‘Ow cud yew not see this comin’ on?” Barm did a little twirl, gesturing all around him, at the group he had with him, at the streets, the walls, the sky, at Finn.</p><p> </p><p>“Didya reaaaly think ya coud sweep all oure money, daye afta daye, noight afta noight, all the woil thinkin’ ta give us, yor friends, yor pals, the slip? Where waz ya gonna go wit alllll that money Finn? Goin ta boi me somethin’ noice?”</p><p> </p><p>Finn was going to answer, they really were. It probably wouldn’t have been clever. It might have likely gotten them killed. “Your mother?” or something like it? Not elegant maybe, but from the heart.</p><p> </p><p>But before Finn ever even gathered the spit for the words, his head exploded.</p><p> </p><p>“I- FUCKIN- SAID- WHAT THE HELL IS ALL THIS?” came the loudest sound Finn had ever heard. Was that a voice? A voice from a person? Can people be that loud? Finn had heard loud voices before, his mothers’ were as loud as they came, or so Finn had thought. Apparently they’d only glimpsed the beginning of an entire world of loud.</p><p> </p><p>“Wot, who’s this cun-” Barm began turning to address the, person, the thing, the <em>sound </em>now angrily coming at them. But Barm, never very fast on his springiest days, was not quite all the way there when a massive, black clawed fist launched itself into Barm’s sizeable target of a cheek. Finn thought, in that moment, launched was an appropriate term. Punched didn’t reaaaaallly cover it. Finn had seen rockets on ships, they knew what a launch was.</p><p> </p><p>Barm did end up facing the direction he’d originally intended, but only after completely spinning round a full turn clockwise. He opened his mouth, gaped open really, and gave a little sound. Just a small one, barely an “Ah.” before he toppled.</p><p> </p><p>That’s the only word for it surely Finn thought. Toppled, like a tree? Do people ever really just ‘fall’ after a plank of meat embeds itself in your face? Looking more closely, or as closely as their thoroughly dizzy vision allowed, Finn could swear they saw one of Barm’s teeth lodged in the previously launched fists’ knuckles.</p><p> </p><p>Finn was about to take a long hard look at who the knuckles and the fist belonged to, but then they moved.</p><p> </p><p>Now, Finn had seen fights before. They’d seen plenty. Finn practically came from a family of fighters. It was a little much if Finn was honest. A lot too much actually. Neither of his mothers had ever especially been interested in things like music, or theater, or reading. They were more, practical, one might say.</p><p> </p><p>Thus, Finn thought that perhaps, they’d had a grasp on what a fight looked like. It usually didn’t involve more than one person and one other, generally similar sized, person. Fights happened for training or for wounded pride, or for tests of strength, or hell, even just for fun. Finn had seen that plenty of times. And yet, Finn had never thought that a fight might look quite like this.</p><p> </p><p>And what was Finn looking at even? Barm’s thugs hadn’t sat still, waiting for their leader’s assailant to apologize and leave. They’d piled,<em> piled </em>on the attacker. Was it one attacker? Just one? They, whoever, whatever they were, were a mountain of meat and fur and scars. It wasn’t a fast moving mountain of meat, but every movement could be <em>felt</em>, such was the weight.</p><p> </p><p>Between the cluster of bodies trying to tackle and bring it down, and the flailing limbs trying to batter at it, Finn could make out black, lots of black. Black fur, claws, teeth, and an utter tangle of angry pink scars cutting every which way through the fur that in some large patches there just simply wasn’t anywhere for the fur to grow.</p><p> </p><p>Finn didn’t really know what they were looking at honestly. A giant angry, ball? Of Anger?</p><p> </p><p>This things limbs were everywhere. As Finn noticed it didn’t move overly fast, but when it moved its limbs shot out with grating force against anything in its way. And it was usually two limbs at once. This thing didn’t just strike out with a fist, it hurled a whole shoulder at one unlucky victim (the only truthful word Finn could find) while immediately raking another with a rear foot claw. It bit one, sinking teeth into a torso, while flinging both hind legs in wild arcs, claws seeking and often finding clothes, armor, and soft bits underneath and baking them so many scraps.</p><p> </p><p>Everything this thing did was a multi-faceted act of pure, unadulterated, <em>violence</em>.</p><p> </p><p>That’s what is was, Finn thought. That’s why this is different. This isn’t a fight. This is<em> violence. </em>This is abuse, this is one sided abuse with no equal opponents. This is a child smashing a spider with a rock, or stepping on an ant pile, even while they bite back a hundred times over, for what little good it did them.</p><p> </p><p>Finn wouldn’t say the remains were rags. They all made too much noise, and limped and crawled and rolled away and overall <em>moved</em> too much to have been literally torn to shreds. Was Finn grateful for that? Why? Not for them, it couldn’t possibly be. Maybe Finn was grateful they didn’t have to actually <em>see</em> them ripped apart?</p><p> </p><p>A-something lizard, A..ro? Argo? Argo! Argo, the lizard, still clutching Finn’s collar, now became quite limp. He stood, tongue lulling out like he’d panted his entire mouth dry. Had he in fact?</p><p> </p><p>The, thing, the meat thing? The mass of teeth, muscles, fur, claws and scars, having… <em>dealt</em> with the last of Barm’s associates, turned on Finn and Argo.</p><p> </p><p>This thing looked straight at Finn. Not through them like some bad poets like to pronounce with what they think is gravitas. No no no, this thing looked <em>straight at</em> Finn and fully, utterly, <em>saw</em> them. Finn felt like prey, out in the middle of a wide open field, with no trees, no tall grass, nor even any rocks to hide behind for miles around.</p><p> </p><p>Finn didn’t like it.</p><p> </p><p>Argo seemed to agree. “H-h-h-hey, hey there now… just, just wait just a sssec.” He tried to get out.</p><p> </p><p>But, clearly, the thing was still hungry. Clearly Argo understood this, because Finn was suddenly alone, no claws gripping him, and Argo’s fleeing steps in the dirt sounding off in the direction they had started from.</p><p> </p><p>Finn, still fairly dizzy, still fairly sure they were concussed, was quite, quite sure they couldn’t stand, much make it a step.</p><p> </p><p>Was this how it was going to happen? Had the trouble they’d caused finally landed Finn in a spot they couldn’t think or talk or run or bullshit their way out of? At long last? Were his mothers actually right?</p><p> </p><p>“OH no. This can’t be happening.” They thought, as the thing slowly, lumberingly, crept forward. Its steps were strained, maybe even pained Finn felt. But this thing barely breathed heavily at all for all that, like it hadn’t just turned over half a dozen wastelanders into tossed salad in a torrent, a storm, a… a… Finn was having trouble finding the words, and not just because of the concussion, they thought.</p><p> </p><p>“A chaos?” they mumbled. “Is a chaos, singular, a descriptor?” They weren’t sure, but it felt about right.</p><p> </p><p>The thing, reaching Finn, looked down at them. Finn had never felt so small. This thing cast <em>shade</em> over them. Finn looked closer, their vision finally clearing enough, just for a moment to notice two bright, differently colored eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Then it spoke.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have a drink, by any chance, eh?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>To be continued.</p>
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